


Director's Cut

by CopperBeech



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adolescent Humor, Author Is An Eleven Year Old Boy At Heart, Crack, Crowley Is Hoist With His Own Petard, For The Love Of God Turn Back Now, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Sorry, Le Petomane, M/M, The Chat Room Made Me Do It, Why Did I Write This?, i mean...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29224224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: Aziraphale finds the shank of the 1890's a bit depressing. Crowley hits on a distraction.“Oh, it is such an irony that the arts of war can sometimes foster the sublimer arts. I am agog now. Would you like a lavender pastille? Goodness, there are women in nurses’ uniforms at the sides of the hall – is his performance truly so ravishingly transcendent?”“You won’t believe your ears, angel.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 56





	Director's Cut

**Author's Note:**

> This is all the fault of cumaeansibyl, who had the idea, and the denizens of the Slow Show Support Group on Tumblr who egged me on. If that is the verb we want.
> 
> Joseph Pujol, Le Petomane, enjoyed fame from his Parisian debut in the 1890's through the first year of the Great War, performing for audiences at the Moulin Rouge, in his own dedicated theatre, and in command performances before crowned heads.
> 
> And, on one memorable night, an angel.
> 
> If you have refined sensibilities, run, run the other way.

Crowley went the first time because it had already been a popular art form in Hell for several centuries, at least in some circles, and he wanted to see what the humans had made of it. The second time was to satisfy his curiosity that there was no chicanery involved, and, though he wouldn’t admit it, his admiration had been piqued. The third time he bought tickets for himself and Aziraphale.

“You didn’t let _me_ live down crossing the Channel on a whim for the whole of the last century,” the angel huffed _sotto vo_ ce as they pressed into the Moulin Rouge, jostling well-dressed gentry, everyday Parisians, opulent courtesans. “What ever is this performance about? You’ve been so mysterious – Oh! – Crowley, this is quite the mixed assembly – “

“Been sellin’ out for yonks. The moment I heard him, I knew I had to bring you.” Crowley was doing his level best to keep a straight face. The dark glasses helped.

“You’re always so thoughtul, Crowley.”

For a moment it looked as if Aziraphale might take his hand, but the incongruity of tender feeling at this particular performance prompted Crowley to pretend he didn’t notice and look away. They’d felt their way back to ease with one another since healing the breach of 1862 – too much ease, Crowley was beginning to think, as their drinking sessions grew longer and later and they sometimes all but forgot they worked for opposing sides. This performance would leave the angel affronted and outraged, and Crowley would have his laugh, and then they’d be back to baiting one another from a safe distance for another decade or so. He settled into his seat as the master of ceremonies strode in front of the curtain.

“Mesdames et messieurs, may I present the sensation of Paris, the jewel of the Moulin Rouge, Joseph Pujol. the incomparable Petomane.”

Applause rippled through the audience, feathers nodding on fashionable hats as women craned their necks to get a clear view of the celebrity. “They say he discovered his talents in the French Army,” Crowley said, leaning close to Aziraphale’s ear as the tumult continued. “Performin’ for the bunkmates. Boredom, y'know, sets people up for some’ve my best work too.”

“Oh, it _is_ such an irony that the arts of war can sometimes foster the sublimer arts. I am agog now. Would you like a lavender pastille? Goodness, there are women in nurses’ uniforms at the sides of the hall – is his performance truly so ravishingly transcendent?”

“You won’t believe your ears, angel.”

Aziraphale beamed as a man appeared onstage wearing a flamboyant costume – black satin breeches, scarlet tailcoat and patent pumps – and sporting a mustache of epic breadth and luxury. He held no instrument and was followed by no accompanist. The applause died back.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the performer, “I would like to commence my act with a series of impressions. Here is _the little girl.”_

He leaned forward slightly, suggesting a hunting hound, and a timid, wavering note issued from… well, where, exactly? The angel wondered, until the obvious answer struck him. Crowley, watching, caught the exact moment when Aziraphale realized that the dainty noise had come from M. Pujol’s backside. Applause.

“The mother-in-law.”

This required a more active stance, like an athlete’s at the starting block, and the sound rose, fell, sputtered in a staccato burst before finishing on a descending cadence. Aziraphale’s eyes were wide with – disbelief? Shock? Any second now, he would rise and leave in a great, indignant clatter, and then Crowley would taunt him, _c’mon, angel, where’s your sense of culture? You’re always telling me how you appreciate the mortal arts._

“The bride on her wedding night,” announced the artiste. A melodious soprano note faded shyly. “The morning after,” he said as the laughter abated, and uttered a jolting, _forte_ explosion that caused several of the audience to jump in their seats. The woman to Crowley’s left was already gasping.

“The dressmaker ripping two yards of calico.”

It went on. And on. Not even at the Royal Opera had a performer produced so sustained a note without drawing breath. Laughter almost drowned the sound, and Crowley stole another glance at the angel, who was hunched in almost crippling embarrassment, eyes shut tight, pretending earnestly that he wasn’t here – any moment now –

Oh, Those were tears at the corners of his eyes, and he was barely containing heaves of laughter.

“And now, the initial cannonade of the Battle of Austerlitz. Load – “ the white-gloved hand held up – “aim” – pointing over the performer’s shoulder – “fire.”

Thunder. Aziraphale's head went forward between his hands, almost to his knees, and a solicitous woman in a white cap and uniform bent down at the end of the row to ask if monsieur required assistance. Barely able to get a sound out, the angel shook his head, smacking tears away from his flushed cheeks with the heel of one hand.

 _“Il va bien_ – “ waved Crowley, only to regret it a half minute later when Aziraphale still hadn’t come up for air. Of course, he didn’t exactly need it, but he’d never seen the angel so unable to get command of himself, though finally he regrouped enough to take the handkerchief Crowley extended, wipe his eyes, and wheeze in a few shallow breaths before disintegrating again.

“And now, messieurs et mesdames, before I embark upon the main part of tonight's program, the _Marseillaise_.”

The audience rose, Aziraphale clinging to Crowley’s shoulder for support. Of all the circumstances under which Crowley had imagined his angel leaning against him, this was not in the catalogue.

The anthem commenced. Crowley doffed his hat.

* * *

“It’s meant to be so embarrassing and – and people _apologize –_ I had a woman come into the shop last week whose luncheon must have disagreed with her terribly, and she looked so mortified, I did a small miracle to muffle the sound, it was just like that – _ripping calico!!!”_

The angel was off again, propping himself on the standard of a gas lamp.

“The monk using Morse Code during the hours of silence – the – he played _chords --_ Oh, Crowley, have you ever had a go? It seems something one could learn.”

“Ah – doubt I’ve got it in me, angel.”

“At least you ought to try. Demons are meant to be quite good at it (2), aren’t you? It was in one of our orientations to the _tactics of the foul fiend as encountered in the field._ Michael kept wrinkling her nose. _Le petit pet d’un diable. Hagh – ffff –_ Crowley, I can’t thank you enough. I haven’t laughed so in ages.”

“Din’t think it was _that_ funny – “

“Oh, but it is. And so – so _reassuring._ You know, after the Fall, She doomed mortals to these awkward and _inconvenient_ bodily functions – it must have been humiliating, and then look how they learn to rejoice in them. Just think, what if I incorporated something like that in my magic act?" Aziraphale had studied stage magic with John Maskelyne while Crowley was still sleeping off his dudgeon, and the demon frequently regretted not waking up sooner. For a while there Aziraphale seemed thankfully to have abandoned the pastime. Crowley wondered if a demonic prayer had any effect whatsoever.

“I’m sure I could get the knack of it – it says here in the handbill that he’s perfected the _rare_ faculty of inhaling air through his – “

“Angel. Please – “

“But, you know, I’m certain I could master anything a human can – “

"I really don't think it would be a good idea -- "

“I could do Gabriel’s trumpet – “

 _“_ Just let’s get supper, shall we?"

“ _Let’s hear what Harry The Rabbit has learned to do!!”_

“Angel, this is me _begging_ you – “

“Ahhh – ha – oh, very well, Crowley. I am after all in your debt. You always bring me out of myself, I’ve been in such a funk since dear Oscar’s arrest. (3) Supper it is, perhaps some onion soup? Or a hearty broad bean cassoulet?”

“Whatever, angel, I just want a glass of Cabernet – “

“And a dessert cheese. Some Reblochon de Savoie or Saint-Nectaire, they never make it across the Channel in proper condition.” The blue eyes twinkled. “One of the ones that’s ripened in a small round? Cheese is always best when it’s freshly cut.”

(1) Pujol’s act as depicted here follows the script described by his son in a collection of appreciative essays ( _Le Petomane,_ Jean Nohain, 1967) and faithfully reproduced in the 1979 short film Le Petomane, starring Leonard Rossiter. (Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8gym81fY460&t=905s )

(2) Dante, _Inferno,_ Canto 21.

(3) Wilde was arrested in early April of 1895. Joseph Pujol first appeared in Paris in 1892, so by now he would have consolidated his fame.

**Author's Note:**

> Come... uh.... blow your horn at me on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech.
> 
> And if anyone has the slightest impulse to podfic this, bring it on.


End file.
